


Chivalry is Dead

by lovelessly



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Blood and Gore, Dubious Consent, Historical, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-09
Updated: 2013-10-11
Packaged: 2017-12-28 21:49:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/997226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovelessly/pseuds/lovelessly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An episode during the 100 Year's War between France and England. I've always wanted to write about the Black Prince, Prince Edward, one of the greatest military leaders in English history, a proponent of chivalry despite the fact that chivalry had died out by his generation. (This fic is influenced by The Nameless Day by Sarah Douglass, and one of Shakespeare's historical plays.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Invasion

England wondered what was so wonderful about the French throne. Was it prettier than the English throne? Perhaps the French throne was cast of solid gold, and decorated with sapphires and rubies, and the cushion was stuffed with phoenix down and woven from unicorn hair. It must be so, if he had to kill France for it.

“Why do you look so gloomy, little one? We have won a glorious victory for England, have we not?”

“Say what you will, it was not glorious.” He could be honest with the prince, for he adored the king's heir, tall and golden and strong, and the prince almost certainly loved him in return.

The prince laughed, a hearty patronizing sound, and he patted England’s shoulder in what was meant to be a comforting manner. “If victory were to happen, then lives must be lost. At any rate, you will become accustomed to it. War is never pretty.”

The first time England had participated in a battle on the continent, and ‘not pretty’ hardly described the extent of the horrors he witnessed. He recalled wading through countless corpses of the finest of knighthood, both French and English, the stench of rotting flesh that persisted for weeks, the wings of carrion crows blotting out the sun. The poisonous black smoke in the air from burned crops and villages, the screams and wails of the peasantry as they were ridden down by honorable, chivalrous knights. Ever thorough, the grim specter followed the English armies on his pale horse, and what few survivors who escaped the war then perished from starvation and the plague.

And the Black Prince deemed his mission unfinished, for there were still parts of France that would not bow to the king of England, their rightful king, even after Crecy, Calais, Aquitaine. Even after Poitiers. Anyone else would surrender after nearly half of their population lay dead and decomposing in the fields. But then again, France and common sense seemed to have only a passing acquaintance with each other.

 

Unfortunately for both, the two nations did meet. England had not been sure there was a France to meet outside of a funeral, but there he was, in all of his ruined splendor, a ghastly shade of what he had once been. Rather than looking defeated, he was smiling - albeit tiredly - probably hoping, like a child would, that the bad things have gone away.

A sudden bout of shyness overcame him, and England ducked behind a squire in the royal retinue, regretting asking to accompany this supposedly diplomatic mission. The prince noticed the movement, caught him by the scruff of his tunic and pulled him close, a thoughtful look on his handsome face.

“Where is he?” he asked quietly, and there was no question of whom he sought.

England was too young, too innocent to deceive, and the prince caught the barely noticeably flick of green eyes, and he followed the line of the boy’s sight to its target, appraising the slight figure with the grimness of a man given a mission.

“Too young…” was all he said. “But then again, so are you. Little bear, do not let our bird escape,” he warned, and England could only nod in assent. As soon as the Black Prince left to lord over the cringing, fawning remnants of French nobility, England reluctantly set to his miserable task.

 

“Oh, Angleterre, still so short even after having acquired a third of my lands!” France crooned, swooping out of nowhere to pull at his cheeks most aggravatingly. “What brings you here, hmm? Worried about me at last?”

“Stop that, moron!” With an indignant huff, England tried to disentangle himself from France’s enthusiastic embrace, deeply aware of the smell of infection and rotting blood underneath the flowery perfume meant to hide it, and wanting to get away before the nausea rolled in. “Why are you still smiling like that? You lost to me, so act like it!”

France frowned then, blue eyes darkening. “I was happy to see you safe,” he said. “Besides, my lords have come to beg leniency from your prince. He will give it, non? Even here, we hear of his compassion and excellent character from your people.”

But England only scowled even more, chewing at his lower lip fiercely. “We shall see about that.”

“Oh, I do not understand you sometimes. The prince can not do anything worse to me, not if he really wants a kingdom on the continent, and people to serve him.”

“He could kill you.”

“Nonsense! One man can not kill a nation.”

“Really? Then he will make you wish you were dead.”

The other nation laughed, but it was hollow and nervous, and no different from what England felt.


	2. Bowed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't read if you don't like maggots. I hope the symbolism is apparent enough.

They passed the time until the evening meal by walking along the castle walls, trying to guess which of the cottages and homes below had been affected by the black death. (All of them.) England hated it, hated how France reeked, and he wanted to go home so badly, where the fairies awaited his return. But he could not disobey the prince, and so he clung to France’s side, trailing after him like an unhappy shadow.

England was so wrapped up in his thoughts, he did not notice France slipping an arm around his waist and pulling him close until it had already happened. With a jolt, he almost pelted the other nation for his daring, but remembered just in time and settled for a small “Hmph” and a few choice insults about a particularly awful odor. At least this close to France, he could sense that he was actually getting taller, even if he still looked like a small boy compared to his brothers, and stood just a little straighter in France’s embrace.

“How long are you going to stay, Angleterre?” France asked, breaking the temporary silence with the softest of queries.

“As long as I need to, until we win.”

“You will be staying a long time then.” He could feel the smile, even if he could not quite see it from behind the curtain of golden hair.

England refrained from a sigh. It had been a long time already. “We will win, though.”

 

The evening meal was disastrous, and they should not have come. The food tasted like ashes, in Aquitaine of all places, where some semblance of civilization had been carved out amidst the maelstrom of strife. What could be assembled of a court looked pale and shabby, their faces permanently etched into worried grimaces, echoes of smiles. France could still smile though, England noticed, but that may have been more because of the lull in fighting after the treaty, a break from the assault upon his body, and not because he was actually happy about the situation. Out of nowhere, he laughed at something that England muttered under his breath, and the sound was so unusual, everyone stopped and stared at them.

“Pardon me,” France whispered, bringing his hand to his mouth, “I did not mean to be disruptive.”

The prince smiled at him warmly. “Someone so lovely should never have to apologize for enjoying life. Now that I think of it, where is that entertainer? We would all appreciate a few songs and japes.”

Eventually, one of the French lords spoke up and explained that the jester had recently taken his own life, and somehow, that set the entire dining hall bursting into laughter.

 

After the dinner, France was sent to the prince’s side, and England tagged along, inconspicuous in his drab cloak. They spoke quietly in French, and he could only understand the occasional word.

“What were you talking about?” England asked, after they exited the hall.

“The prince wanted me to deliver a message to my king, or at least, the man who currently sits upon the French throne. It is nothing of your concern.” France seemed to be contemplating something, and at last he said, “You will be on your own tonight. I trust you can sleep alone, without my company?”

“I most certainly can!” England sputtered. “I’m not a child!”

“No, how foolish of me to believe such a thing. You are obviously an old man inside a small body,” France murmured soothingly.

“And I don’t need you hogging the blankets, either!”

“Of course.” France bent to kiss his cheek, causing England to blush fiercely and swat at him. “Sleep well, mon lapin. I will see you on the morn.”

 

But England did not see France the next morning, and as the sun climbed higher in the grey sky, his panic grew. It was not like France to go back on his word, and so England set out to look for him. He asked the castle servants, but they stared at him dully and went on their business without bothering to answer. None of the nobility seemed to be awake, and the English squires and pages had no idea, either. Finally, it occurred to him that perhaps “boy” did not accurately describe France at dinner last night.

England made his way to the prince’s personal quarters, hoping to get some clue as to France’s whereabouts. The door was slightly ajar, and he peeked into the bedroom. He caught a glimpse of a lump under the covers, topped by messy yellow hair, and with a sinking heart, England tiptoed into the room, closing the door behind him.

Stepping close enough to confirm his guess, England asked, “France? Are you awake?”

There was no answer, no movement, but England continued to speak, willing his voice to not tremble. “You said you were going to meet me this morning, but it is already noon…” He was not going to admit that he had been worried, not at all, even though he was.

He was so still, barely breathing, and fearing the older nation had gone the way of the poor jester, England reached out to brush the soft curls off of France’s sleeping face. England nearly screamed aloud when his wrist was caught in an iron grip, and he backpedaled desperately, trying to free himself. France had sat up and was now staring at him, eyes wide and frightened, not a trace of recognition to be found in the deep blue irises.

“France! It’s me, England!”

“England…?”

“Yes, Angleterre.” He took a breath once France let go of him and mumbled an apology, and tried to not look as the other suddenly remembered to cover himself with a sheet. But he had already seen the half-healed wounds and bruises, scarlet and plum upon ochre and viridian, painted over milk-white skin, brand new ones overlaid ancient ones, too many for such a small thin body to bear without breaking.

It seemed that France was at a loss for words, for once, and he cast about the room, trying to assess the situation while finding some way to hide the evil purple imprints upon his forearms. “Um. Be a dear and find my shift. It’s around here somewhere.”

England found it tossed onto a stool, and brought it to France, who thanked him magnanimously.

“Wh-what were you doing in the prince’s room?” England asked, even though he already knew the answer. “He will be mad if he finds you here.”

“Your prince invited me here last night,” France replied, his voice muffled as he put on the white under-gown. “We had important adult things to discuss, nothing that you would understand. It was late by the time we finished, so he let me sleep here.”

Stumbling only slightly, France got to his feet without another word and wandered over to the bowl and pitcher of water. England watched him wash his face silently, but out of the corner of his eye, he could see the steady trickle of blood as it dripped slowly down the edge of the blanket and onto the floor, blood more like the muddy soil of Poitiers than any humor that ever flowed in a human’s veins.

“Did you miss me? Is that why you were looking for me?” France ran his fingers through his hair, gave up trying to style it, and then shuffled around the room, searching for his tunic.

“No, I didn’t miss you,” England retorted haughtily, certain that if he spoke loud enough, he would not hear the sound of the maggots crawling and writhing along the carpet to feast upon France’s black, rotten blood. “But I thought you might have gotten… sick, and I wanted to make sure.”

France snorted as he dressed, and then he laughed, a bitter and fragile sound. “I am already sick, England, no thanks to your precious Edward. He has quite a temper, you know, despite his pretty words.” He sat down on the bed with a flounce, and England tried to not wince as some of the maggots were crushed underfoot, tried to not imagine their little screams of agony.

“However… I think I am getting better.”

 

It was not until the massacre at Limoges that England understood what France meant, as he watched Prince Edward cough upon a handkerchief, staining it black as mud, black as his armor, black as the fearsome reputation he would forever hold in history.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Limoges was Edward's last battle in France before he returned to England, dying of a wasting disease.]


End file.
